


Another Man's Name

by witchway



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28101678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchway/pseuds/witchway
Summary: At first, Peter's spidey-senses made sex more of a chore than a pleasure.  Tony was willing to help out in that department.  Now they are very, very good in bed together.But now there was a problem.Recently, it seemed to Tony that, in the middle of sex, Peter was calling out another man’s name.
Relationships: Starker - Relationship, Tony Stark/Peter Parker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83





	1. The Dial

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completed work of 3 chapters. I will be posting during the month of December. Subscribe so you won't miss it.

Face buried in the sheets, back arched, elbows bent, Peter resisted the urge to start pushing back. Tony’s cock felt impossibly huge, eight inches around if it was a centimeter, and it seemed like he had been pounding for _hours_. Peter could feel every hair on his body stand on edge – it was perfect. It was divine. But Peter knew it couldn’t last, already the sounds in the room were getting too loud. 

There were no sounds in the penthouse, of course. Tony made sure of it. There was absolutely nothing to hear at all, just the sound of their bodies crashing together over and over again, just the sound of their breathing. The sound of Tony’s heartbeat, the sound of the lights they must have left on in the lab, the sound of the air conditioner in the other room… ah god it was happening right now… he didn’t want to start covering his ears with his hands but he was going to be covering his ears with his hands soon…

“Whatsamatter, sweet baby,” Tony crooned, pausing mid-thrust, one solid hand on the small of Peter’s back.

And, just like that, Peter relaxed.

His senses didn’t dial down, not at all, but Peter knew they would. And soon. When Tony started calling him “sweet baby,” well, that meant Tony was going to start _helping_ him dial it down.

“Talk to me, sweet baby, daddy’s here…” Tony murmured, his voice soothing and calm. A little winded, yes, but he sounded more like a man that had hurried into a room, not a man who had just seconds ago been vigorously fucking Peter for all he was worth. His hand stroked solidly up and down Peter’s spine, to his neck and then down to the small of his back. A quiet, logical part of Peter’s mind noted how _quickly_ his own body responded, his shoulder’s relaxing, his body melting into the bed. He wouldn’t be answering that question, of course. The less he answered, the more Tony spoke. And the more Tony spoke this way, the easier it was to dial his senses back to a reasonable level.

“Come back to me, sweet baby. Come on back. Daddy’s good boy. Talk to me, give me information. Come on baby, where are you…”

He started to pull away then, and Peter’s head snapped around and he answer the question quickly. He didn’t want _less_ touch now, that was certain _. Not this time_. That had always worked before, but not now. Now he realized it wouldn’t feel good, it wouldn’t feel good at all. He tried to articulate that, but all he got out was “Nononono no no…. no Tony don’t…” was he pushed his body back into Tony’s hands, pushed his body back against Tony’s cock. 

He knew Tony was surprised. Could almost _hear_ him smiling.

“Keep touching me,” he finally managed to explain, turning his head and sneaking a look back into Tony’s face. Sure enough, his lover was grinning.

“Oh… oh sweet baby boy. Sweet boy. I’ll do _anything_ you want. But talk to me. Tell me how you’re doing.”

“Oh it feels so good, Tony,” Peter whimpered. He truly wanted Tony to know what he was feeling, even if describing it would be… embarrassing. “It’s so intense.” He blushed. “You feel so _huge_ to me…”

“Sweet baby, you do such good things to my ego,” Tony chuckled. He asked a few more questions, murmured a few more reassurances. 

And then he got back to work.

* * *

“What’s that, baby?” Tony asked but then caught himself sharply. His job was to fuck, and to fuck hard, and to fuck well. His job was _not_ to ask questions.

Besides, “Baby” was the dial-down word. He couldn’t use it for anything else.

He didn’t ask again, but Peter answered. “ItfeelssogoodTony” is what he managed to say, turning his face away from the bed, just enough to be understood. It _wasn’t_ what he had said just moments before, certainly. Tony let it go.

That wasn't the truth, that wasn't what Peter said. So he hadn’t told the truth, but that really wasn’t Tony’s business, was it? He shook his head hard, took Peter’s wrists in a firmer grasp and, pulling the boy closer to his body, got back to work.

He had a job, and he was going to do it.

Peter was his enigma, his sweet baby-faced angel wrapped around an experienced and practical lover. Tony couldn’t begrudge Peter his experience, given how _long_ he had waited until he made his move, and Peter didn’t blame him for his caution. For the longest time they had circled each other like lions. Not in the lab, of course. Not in the skies. In the lab they could complete each other’s sentences. In the skies, complete each other’s moves. But in the bedroom they were far more cautious. It made sense. The stakes were higher there. 

Not that they didn’t trust each other. They had _always_ trusted each other. They trusted each other with their lives. But in the bedroom there was just more to lose.

And it didn’t work as well in the bedroom as it had in the lab, as it had in the field, as it had in the skies above New York. But since the bedroom was a lot like the lab (and really only 4 rooms removed from the lab) they _found_ a way to make it work.

Peter’s spider-senses, the ones that made him so amazing on the battlefield, made things almost impossible in the bedroom. (In _Tony’s_ bedroom, that is. Peter’s experience up until then had been of the short-and-sweet variety, so the dialing up of his senses, while annoying, was always short-lived. Not so much in Tony’s bedroom. Tony liked to take his time.)

But with some talk and experimentation, they had found a way around that.

Okay, so not _all_ of the experimentation had been done with Peter’s consent. Or knowledge. Yes, Tony had done a great deal of the experimentation completely on his own, but perhaps he could be forgiven because of the results. 

The results, after all, were incredibly successful. 

* * *

The words “whatsamatter, sweet baby,” brought the screen up. FRIDAY always positioned it to the right of Tony’s head, in a place Peter would never turn his head to see (Tony knew from his detailed analysis of the tapes exactly where Peter _would_ and _would not_ be looking when the sensory overload started.) 

“Talk to me,” he crooned, knowing damn well the kid wouldn’t be talking. It was the fact that Peter had _stopped_ making noise that signaled to him the need for the dial-down. But he had to continue to say words, lowering the pitch of his voice until, according to the screen FRIDAY had helpfully provided, he was speaking in the right register. When he got there (he could never quite make it on the first or second try, no matter how much he practiced) he continued to speak in what he thought of as the “Goldilocks tone,” neither too high nor too low. There was a volume issue too, but for someone reason the Goldilocks _volume_ had come naturally. The pitch? He still needed FRIDAY’s help for that.

“Come back, daddy’s good boy,” he crooned, watching FRIDAY’s screen. He thought of his voice as the anchor, the fixed point that Peter could use to bring his senses back under his control. When the dial flew past 11, sex became less-than-pleasant and began moving into overwhelming. “Talk to me, give me information,” Tony was saying now, watching FRIDAY’S dial carefully. If the pitch of his voice became _too_ low, it simply stopped working. “Come on baby, where are you,” etc. etc. The words didn’t matter, as long as he kept saying words. He began pulling away, knowing it would help Peter feel closer to normal again.

“Nononono no no!” Peter whimpered, making Tony smile. 

That was quick. Either Tony was getting better at this, or Peter was. Maybe they both were.

“Keep touching me,” Peter whispered, making Tony grin all the more. A sharp jerk of his head closed FRIDAY’s screen. He didn’t need it anymore. Peter was already back.

“Oh, baby boy,” Tony said in his normal voice, glowing with pride when he saw Peter’s eyes. Usually at times like this Peter’s eyes were firmly closed. “I’ll do _anything_ you want. But talk to me. Tell me how you’re doing.”

“Oh it feels so good, Tony, it’s so intense, you feel so _huge_ to me…”

Tony grinned from ear to ear. That was the longest sentence Tony had heard from Peter in the middle of sex. Tony made a mental note to count the number of words later, in the post-analysis.

Because there _would_ be a post-analysis. When Peter was asleep, when Peter was gone, Tony would be reviewing THIS tape over and over again with pride. Being successful with Peter wasn’t enough, Tony wanted to know _why_ he was successful. Wanted to make sure he could do it again. Eventually without FRIDAY’s help. Peter had suggested sex would be easier if it were just shorter, but Tony, of course, had better ideas.

Was he a little obsessive about it? Most definitely so. He didn’t even want to think about how many manhours he had spent analyzing all the footage, the footage of them in bed and out of it. No need to clock how LONG he had spent analyzing the data, watching the records of their lovemaking over and over again. Their lovemaking, and the pillow talk that followed afterward. THAT Tony had studied obsessively. Analyzing and re-analyzing every word Peter had said in those post-coital discussions, crunching the data that went with each word. What was Peter’s heartrate, his temperature, his breathing rhythm like when he made those confessions, those concessions, those guesses as to what made sex bearable and what made it un-. Those admissions to what Peter had fantasized about in the past, but was certain he could never have.

In the end, Tony’s studies concluded that Peter was being perfectly honest (if not always articulate) about the moment his spider-senses moved from the extreme-and-amazing zone and into the extreme-and-unpleasant zone (and then passed into the extreme-make-it-stop zone.) And after a _great_ deal of theorizing about ambient noise, room temperature and sheet threadcount, Tony had found a direct connection between the pitch of _his voice_ and Peter’s ability to keep control of the dial. _What_ he said with that exact pitch didn’t seem to matter, as long as the pitch of his voice was consistent. And the results… well… the results spoke for themselves.

There was just one problem, now.

In the beginning, Peter hadn’t talked much. Which is to say, Peter almost never spoke at all. The first signal that he was “losing control of the dial,” as he put it, was that the sounds in the room became overwhelming, and the first sound Peter always eliminated was his own voice.

But the better they got at the bedplay, the better Peter had become and controlling the dial (and the better Tony had become at helping) the more expressive Peter had become. The more expressive he _could_ become. And the more expressive he became, the more words he could say. They weren’t always clear or coherent. In fact, most were spoken with Peter’s face buried in a pillow. But the words were there.

And that was the problem.

Recently, it seemed to Tony that, in the middle of sex, Peter was calling out another man’s name.


	2. Making People Disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony lay awake and dreamed of making some lithe pretty 20-something Indian student disappear.... just as soon as he figured out who the son of a bitch was.

For a while he was convinced it was someone named “Dutch” but then he dismissed that as ridiculous. No one was named “Dutch” anymore. (Besides, that was a nickname and his intel didn't include anyone Peter went to school with bearing that nickname.)

He was certain it was one of Peter’s fellow classmates, although even he knew his logic was _not_ sound. Mainly, that once he had heard something that sounded like “Ahd” and “-ee” and that sounded Hindi to him, and he happened to know that Peter had a wide variety of Indian an Indian-American associates. In fact Tony Stark was FAR too familiar with the names of _everyone_ Peter encounter during his days at Columbia. Names that he had obtained in both legal and not-necessarily-legal ways. But why shouldn’t he have them? he asked himself as he poured over the names one more time, letting Friday run the identification software through his hacked security footage detailing who Peter hung out with after class. He worked hard for them. 

And he deserved them for a very good reason. (The reason: because he was obsessed.)

Just yesterday they had made a huge breakthrough, Tony reasoned, as he combed through the data. A breakthrough in _what_ , he couldn’t exactly say. But it was a breakthrough. They had done it in the living room, the huge penthouse windows letting in all the lights of the city. It had been Peter who had insisted, or it would have never happened at all. In the end, Tony had been more nervous than he… “What about your dial?” Tony had asked him, but mostly he was worried about HIS dial. They had done it face to face, which meant Tony couldn’t surreptitiously call upon Friday to help him modulate his voice. It didn’t matter though, because he came with embarrassing speed. Peter didn’t seem to mind at all, simply kept his powerful legs locked around Tony’s waist, kissing the side of his face and grinning all the while. For a few moments Tony forgot everything, laying in this remarkable boy’s arms and dreaming he was in heaven.

Tony finally carried him into the bedroom (when the boy insisted he was never letting go.) There Tony was finally allowed to go down on Peter to his heart’s content, showing off all the skills that his advanced years afforded him. 

But that’s when it happened.

Peter had pulled the pillow over his head right before he came... and _that’s_ when Tony heard the name again. Something like “Bahd-he-i” or “Ahb-he-mi” or something close to it. 

For a few solid moments Tony considered kicking the kid out that night. Not in a mean way, of course, just in a casual-suggestion-wow-I've-got-an-early-morning kind of way. Simply because he could then proceed to track Peter’s phone, find out who he would call or who he would facetime as soon as he was free to do so. Tracking texts or emails… of the guy he was sleeping with.

Tony wasn’t above it.

Was he?

But he didn’t, of course. Peter moved the pillow away from his grinning (tear-stained) angelic face and compliment Tony’s technique until the man considered thinking about blushing. That night Peter slept snuggled angelically in Tony’s arms, while Tony lay awake and dreamed of making some lithe pretty 20-something Indian student disappear.

Just as soon as he figured out who the son of a bitch was.

* * *

In the elevator up to the penthouse Peter held himself against the mirrored wall in _exactly_ the right position for Tony to enter slow and gentle. Then demanded Tony not be slow and gentle. Face to face that way, Tony knew he couldn’t call upon Friday’s handy screen, but tonight Peter seemed to want something different. At least, Tony assumed that’s what the hand on his mouth meant. “Don’t talk don’t talk don’t say anything” Peter gasped and Tony complied. He held onto the rail on either side of Peter’s ass and used it to brace himself as he fucked steadily forward, carefully watching Peter’s face. The kid’s eyes were screwed shut in an expression that might have been comical… except that Tony knew that the visual that the mirrored walls provided would be too much for his spiderling to endure. Peter was completely silent, which usually meant that things were too much, and yet Peter didn’t ask him to stop.

“Shhh… I’ve got you baby... shhhh... I’ve got you,” Tony crooned when Peter yelped at startling sound of the elevator’s ding. He withdrew and wrapped around his arms around the boy, whispering and gentling until Peter realized what happened. Giggling and grinning, Peter helped Tony gather their clothes as they made their way into the dark penthouse.

They only got as far as the kitchen. “So what you’re saying…” Tony said with a growl, pushing Peter up against the counter, “…is that you don’t want to dial it down because… why?”

“… are you really going to make me _say_ it?” Peter whispered, smiling and trying to hide under his hands. “I can’t… it’s just… it makes you feel _huge_ , Tony. When I’m dialed up to eleven, I can’t explain it. My skin feels like it’s on fire, I can feel every goosebump, every hair standing on end and you… you just feel…”

“But how big do I feel normally?” 

“You feel _beautiful_ ,” Peter insisted, kissing him hard. “But when I’m dialed up…” He hid his head in Tony’s shoulder and tried to explain. “… sometimes… oh god. Sometimes a boy just wants to be fucked within an inch of his life, you know?”

Tony wrapped his arms around Peter, keeping the boy’s head firmly hidden in his shoulder. He couldn’t hide his grin, and he didn’t want Peter to see it. Didn’t want to explain to his young, strong lover how much _relief_ he was feeling right now. From the beginning he had feared he’d never be able to give it to Peter as hard as he wanted (after all, the boy was enhanced, and in the face of that super-strength, what was Tony to do? Outside of utilizing Stark Tec, of course….)

“Take me to your bed,” Peter was asking now, whispering against Tony’s neck.

“Oh I don’t think I can wait that long,” Tony said with a satisfied smile, and lifted Peter up to sit on the kitchen counter. Peter was scandalized at the prospect of being fucked where they ate, but soon Tony was inside and he had forgotten about everything else.

* * *

“Take care of me in the shower,” Peter was asking as Tony led him by the hand to the bedroom. 

“Oh no, I have something _else_ planned for you,” Tony said with (what he hoped was) a mysterious smile. He had come far too soon, long before Peter was even close, and now he felt obliged to make up for it. He had no idea what his “something else” was going to be, but trusted his brain to come up with something.

As Peter lay face down on his bed, he realized what that something was. He wondered why he had never thought of it before. With Peter’s eyes firmly closed, he opened the drawer to his nightstand and brought out his toys.

The first toy he brought up was long and slim, and the groans and little whimpers that resulted were most satisfying. But it was the _next_ toy, the one made of black leather, that made Peter’s eyes go wide and ask for Tony’s voice again. Friday’s helpful screen and a few “That’s Daddy’s good boys” were all Peter needed, and soon he was moaning and begging and rutting against the bed. Tony enjoyed watching the gooseflesh form across his body, enjoyed the amount of control he had in this moment.

The next toy, the _biggest_ one, Peter rejected immediately, wincing and flinching away with a tiny whimper that it was ‘too big.’

“But… but it can’t be… but it’s the same size that I am, the _exact_ same size” Tony explained. He decided it would be okay to leave out _how_ he knew that it was the exact same size (leaving out the measurement process, the patent, and why Pepper had nixed the idea of putting it on the market.) 

“But it’s _not_ you,” Peter whined, pushing it away without looking back at it. He crunched his eyes tight and then hid his face in the pillow like a child. “It’s not the same. I liked the second one better.” Which explained how Peter Parker wound up with coming his brains out with a modestly-sized black leather dildo inside him while buried root-deep in Tony’s mouth, his legs wrapped around Tony’s neck, his head hidden under a pillow as cried out helplessly, wordlessly, sobbing through his release. 

“Gonna jump in the shower… catch up with you later…” Tony breezed, slapping Peter on the knee in a friendly way, moving into the bathroom and closing the door before he could see the kid’s reaction. He hid under the shower spray, shaking at the enormity of what he had just done, but he knew he couldn’t have helped it. He couldn’t have stayed. He was a brave man, but he wasn't _that_ brave.

He wasn't brave enough to wait in that room while Peter caught his breath, wait to hear the muffled sound of another man’s name whispered against the pillow. 

So he cowered in the shower like an idiot, hating himself, hating the world, hating Peter. Wishing he could be a grownup. Wishing he could hide in another room until morning like he did in his earlier years. But that option was out. Because goddammit Pepper wasn’t here to show his lover out the front door tomorrow. Tony was on his own.

He knew what he had done as soon as he walked back into the bedroom. He knew because Peter was gone, had left to fetch his clothes from the kitchen. Knew because Peter came back into the bedroom with his clothes on. And it was bad if the usually-fastidious was really getting dressed again without showering first. Knew from the guarded-but-trying-to-look-casual way Peter explained he had to get back to his dormroom because of an early something tomorrow. 

Tony let him go.

And that was cruel, and Tony knew it. But letting Peter leave unhappy meant Tony was closer to finding the answer to his question; one step closer to finding the identify of Bahd-he-I “Dutch” Ahb-he-mi and kicking him the fuck out of the country.

Was it fair? No, it absolutely wasn’t fair. Peter and he had agreed long before hand that this would be casual, a friends-with-benefits, a co-workers plus, a we’re-superheroes-no-one-else-understands us kind of deal, and Tony was violating that deal six ways from Sunday. But the moment the elevator doors were closed, before the elevator had even began its descent downward Friday had pulled Peter’s folder pulled. Whoever Peter called tonight, whoever he texted or visited, Tony would know. He’d have the address, immigration status and country of origin of Bahdhei “Dutch” Ahbhemi before morning. 

Sitting in front of his multiple screens, scotch in hand and a bottle ready to be consumed, Tony flipped between his monitors, waiting impatiently for Peter to make his move. 

It was wrong. He should feel guilty. He should feel something other than cold.

But he didn’t, so he pulled up Friday’s files on what had happened just a few hours before. As an act of penance, he watched the footage from the moment he had left the room to hide in his shower, the moments Peter was recovered alone. It would hurt to see Peter hurting like that, and that’s why he watched. He needed to remember what he was doing. He needed to remember what damage he was causing while he tried to get his act together. 

He turned his head from the monitors (Peter still had made no phone calls, sent no texts, not yet) to watch the footage. _There was Peter, laying naked on the bed, face covered with the pillow. There was Tony’s bare ass, leaving the scene._

_Slowly, hesitantly, Peter was pulling the pillow away from his face._

_Slowly, hesitantly, he looked around the room, realizing he was alone._

_The look of shock and dismay on his face was obvious, as was the bitten lip, as was the beginning tears. And that’s when he spoke._

_Both hands over his face, that’s when Tony heard it. The words Peter had been saying. The same words he had been saying all along._

_“Oh god. Oh god help me. I love you. God help me, Tony. I love you so much.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that WAS the end.
> 
> But I had too many people ask me, so very very nicely, to know what happened next.
> 
> You see? Comments Make Fic Longer. Never forget.
> 
> You want to comment now, don't you?


	3. Throwing Money At The Problem Won't Help -- But Can It Hurt?                  The Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he more confident now than he had in days. Why hadn’t he thought about this before? Peter might or might not stop being mad, but he could not stop from being curious. Tony poured himself a drink and took a seat looking out at the New York skyline. He wouldn’t have long to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth is, I was done after chapter 2. But commenters kept asking how Tony was going to fix the problem, and since I knew how - here we are.

“Look kid, I messed up, but that doesn’t mean you get to…” Tony spat into the phone, trying not to sound angry, trying not to sound hostile. Maybe pacing around his penthouse furiously wasn’t a good idea while trying to sound calm? He tried to stop pacing. 

It didn’t work.

People used to call him a lucky man. But it seamed his luck had all run out. 

“Kid… _Peter_ … I know I messed up, and you need to let me make it up to you. You **owe** me that.” He pushed the button that ended the call, damn he missed the days when he could have angrily snapped the phone shut or, better yet, slammed down the receiver. Ah, the days of hanging up the phone when you could _actually hang up the phone._ Peter’s generation would never know the satisfaction of hanging up the phone angrily…

_Because Peter’s generation has no idea what “hang up” means. To them the words “hang up” is just an idiom. They’ve never “hung” the receiver in the cradle. There is no “up” because the one phone in the house isn’t attached to the wall. You grew up in a different world than he did – you’re practically an alien to him._

That was true, but it was information that wasn’t helping Tony now. He took a deep breath and tried to think.

And, just like the twenty seven other deep breaths he had taken that day, it did no good.

He _couldn’t_ think straight. Peter’s radio silence since last Wednesday was making him crazy. His chest tightened every time he thought about it, and now his one superpower, his brain, was completely failing him. He couldn’t think his way out of this one, which was fucked up because thinking his way out of things was his one and only talent. He needed to get the Kid back, and there was absolutely no one he could turn to for help.

Finally, in absolute desperation (and abject humility) he turned to Google. If he was lucky, Google would have the answer.

“How the mighty have fallen” he thought to himself as he typed in the words “ **Help Me I’m Dating A Millennial**.”

He was three hours in before he realized Peter was actually Gen Z.

His luck had run out. He was so very, thoroughly and sincerely screwed.

* * * *

Spending money calmed him down, as always. Made him feel more in control. His daylight conversation with Peter’s voicemail as far more calm and collected. He was proud of himself.

“Alright. I’m sorry. You don’t _owe_ me anything, _obviously_. That was stupid. But I need you to know that I _do_ know what I did… I knew it as soon as it happened… and I _am_ sorry. And I really need you to give me a chance to explain…”

But still, Peter maintained radio silence. Daylight turned into eventide and Tony found himself feeling more and more panicky. Over and over again he looked at his elaborate “I’m Sorry” present. All across the bar. Covering the coffee table. It had to work. Didn’t it? It was huge and elaborate and extreme and _expensive_ , and that was good thing, wasn’t it? Of course, not all his over-the-top gifts worked all the time. They tended not to work with Pepper at any rate. Maybe he should call her for advice…

“Fine, ignore me,” Tony spat into the phone as evening was officially becoming night. “But you’ve left a _lot_ of your stuff here and you need to come pick it up, and you need to pick it up _tonight_ or a fleet of limos to your dorm room to deliver it in the morning and people are going to notice.”

Finally, his eerily silent phone made a noise. 

A ding.

Peter had texted.

**_//no I didnt//_ **

That was it. Three words. The first time the kid had acknowledged him in 72 hours. And all because he wanted to dispute an erroneous fact.

“You did, in fact, leave _quite a bit_ of stuff here, and it’s crowding up the place, so you need to swing by and claim it all, or else your neighbors will be talking in the morning.” Tony explained patiently to Peter’s voice mail, feeling more confident now than he had in days. Why hadn’t he thought about this before? Peter might or might not stop being mad, but he could not stop from being curious. Tony poured himself a drink and took a seat looking out at the New York skyline. He wouldn’t have long to wait.

* * *

His heart sank a little when Peter alighted on the roof and _didn’t_ disengage his mask, even as he entered the penthouse. Tony drained his glass and stood. This was going to be a hard sell.

“Peter, I’m sorry,” he said as gently as he could, just like he had practiced. He wasn’t used to having conversations with the mask that he had designed, but maybe that made it easier. He delivered his next line, the one he had written and rewritten carefully in his head a dozen times, to the masked face, and hoped for the best.

“You probably need to know, up front, that I’m not very good at these things.”

Peter’s mask didn’t react.

_**Shit**_ , because he delivered the line wrong. “At _relationships_ ,” he was supposed to say. _“I’m not very good at_ relationships” was the line and now it was too late and he had blown it because Peter was speaking.

“I didn’t leave anything here, unless there’s something in the lab you want me to pick up,” Peter was saying, and suddenly Tony appreciated his large bank account more than ever, because his mouth was too dry, and his chest too achy, to speak. And so he didn’t. 

He just pointed towards the flowers. 

Peter turned his head and his eyes widened, or rather, the mask Tony designed for him widened the eye-shields allowing Peter to take in more visual information in response to Peter’s actual eyes actually widening to take in more visual information. Tony relaxed completely. It had worked.

In silence Peter took it all in, the glass vases of long-stemmed white roses, taking up every inch of the bar, the table, and the coffee table, as well as the floor and into the hallway. Vase after vase after vase. Thirteen had been the original order, but in the end thirteen didn’t seem like enough. So there were 26 in all. The original flower shop didn’t have that many, but lucky for him the flowershop owner had the names of other florists at the ready.

“These are yours,” Tony said in a normal tone of voice, as Peter started to walk around the room, his eyes wide, counting vase after vase. He felt more normal than he had in 3 days. “But... now that I think about it, I’m not sure they’ll all fit in your dormroom, so if you want to leave some here, that’s fine too. He stood behind Peter and, when Peter turned around, reached out to put a hand on the boy’s waist. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I screwed up. You _have_ to... well you don’t _have_ to but baby... please _choose_ to let me make this up to you.”

“I wasn’t mad,” Peter said, then shook his head. His mask disengaged, but his eyes were still cast to the floor. “It wasn’t about that. It’s just… Tony…”

He tried to look Tony in the eyes and failed, then took a step forward, until their heads were practically touching. When he spoke, he whispered.

“Tony... I’ve never had sex in an elevator before. But you have. And I sure as hell ever did it in front of a mirror before, not even one. But you have… I mean it’s _your elevator_.

“And I sure as hell never did it on a kitchen counter before… but you have. And what you did to me in your bedroom with your toys that was… but they were _your toys_. You’ve done that with other guys before. And that just made me realize…”

“That this is really big for you,” Tony said when Peter’s words dried up. He put both hands on Peter’s hips, then did used every bit of self control he had to not pull Peter any closer. “That all of these are firsts for you, and that I need to take that very seriously. And I am. Because I understand that kid, I do. Peter I _swear_ I get it. And I was an asshole to you that night because that night I… that night I ran away and hid from you like coward and _I’m sorry_. Listen…”

This was it. Time to deliver his second line. The one he had written and rewritten a dozen times. He was grateful, really, that Peter had given him enough time to prepare. He wasn’t going to blow it now.

“Peter your senses get dialed up to 11 and you need help to dial them back down. And sometimes things get really intense for me too and that night…”

Peter eyes were glistening with tears and Tony hadn’t been prepared for that. When Peter looked into his eyes Tony found it all drying up in his mouth, all of it. And he realized he _couldn’t_ do it, couldn’t say any of the lines he had prepared. Couldn’t do anything but tell the truth. It was going to hurt, was going to take a hunk out of his chest in a way no piece of shrapnel had ever done before. He didn’t have a choice. He opened his mouth and pushed himself to tell the gods-honest truth.

“Peter I need to take care of you so badly it scares me.”

They blinked at each other in surprise. Tony kept blinking in surprise even as Peter threw his arms around Tony’s neck and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He continued blinking even as Peter kissed the side of his face, his mouth, then the side of his face again. He had set out to make his confession about the sensors and the surveillance and the obsessive studying of details and, in fact, confessed to something else entirely.

But _it was true_. The sensors and the surveillance and the obsessive studying of details had been about that, had always been about that and nothing else. And those lines, those lines he had carefully written and carefully memorized, dear god those lines were true too, much to his horror. 

“I love you Anthony Stark,” Peter was saying over and over again, and that, at least, Tony could work with. He ordered his arms to move and wrapped them around Peter’s body and held him close.

“I love you, Kid. And I’m a disaster and I’m absolutely no good at this, I mean I’m actively _bad_ at this, but I love you. And you need to know up front that I’m terrible at relationships and you’re going to hate every minute of this but this is all I’ve got. I love you, Peter. And I’m sorry.

“No…” he said, pulling away from Peter’s kiss. He had momentum going now and he didn’t want to stop. “I mean I’m sorry… for something else. 

“A lot of something elses, really.”

He took a deep breath, let it out in an exhausted sigh, and took Peter by the hand. With a weak smile, he led the both toward his private lab.

“I hope you’re in a forgiving mood,” he said ruefully. But maybe it would be alright. Maybe his luck would hold.

**Author's Note:**

> I am thewitchway on Tumblr.
> 
> Come by and say hello. I promise I won't have my AI secretly record you and analyze the results without your knowledge.


End file.
